


close the door behind me (i’m leaving)

by Silver_Queen_DoS



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Gen, Peggy Sue, Time Travel, character death but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23356795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Queen_DoS/pseuds/Silver_Queen_DoS
Summary: Yassen expected to die on Air Force One. He did not expect to wake up six months earlier, still working for Herod Sayle.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider
Comments: 22
Kudos: 256
Collections: Gen Freeform Exchange2020





	close the door behind me (i’m leaving)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galimau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galimau/gifts).



> REQUEST: galimau  
> Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider  
> Tags: Rehumanization, Dysfunctional Relationships, Protectiveness, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, and Awkward Conversations with People You Tried to Kill
> 
> I'm here for any and all interaction that these two could have - ranging from the happy to the deeply not so, but I have a particular soft spot for Yassen slowly becoming human again.

The instant that the bullet hits, Yassen knows that it's over. 

It's hardly the first time he's been shot. In the Amazon jungle Hunter had scored a line across his throat and saved his life in the same move. In the Afghanistan desert a bullet had lodged itself into his femur and turned his entire leg into dead weight while he escaped. 

Both of those times had been dangerous, in their own ways. The chances of infection, of blood loss, of the enemies around him discovering his position… 

But they had been survivable. He _had_ survived them. 

This time— 

This time whatever ill-gotten luck it is that kept him alive through games of russian roulette, through the years of working for SCORPIA, has run out. The thought is not particularly distressing — he has lived his whole adult life on the edge of danger, with the knowledge that one wrong move would mean his death. He is used to it. He accepted it a long time ago. 

And Yassen finds that he cannot _regret_ refusing to shoot Alex Rider, even if these are the consequences. 

But he regrets that it wasn't enough. He regrets that Cray has probably shot Alex himself, rendering the whole point moot. 

He should have killed Cray when the thought had first occurred to him. 

He had thought that he could do both — could carry out his orders for Cray and refuse to harm Alex. He should have known that they were incompatible, that neither path would allow for the other. 

He should have picked a path and committed to it. 

Even in the south of France it had been obvious that he couldn't kill Alex. The bullfight had been a terrible idea — the sort of drama and spectacle that men like Cray preferred, not the sheer brutal efficiency that Yassen had been trained for. 

He’d known that it wouldn’t be enough to kill Alex Rider. He had counted on it. He had thought himself clever, walking that fine line between what the mission required and what would keep Alex alive. But all it had done was delay the inevitable and drag them both _deeper_ into trouble with no way out. 

He drags in a terrible, aching breath and drags himself upright, inch by painful exhausting inch. The fight, whatever it was, is long over. The plane has tilted — has crashed — and there is a white suited body sprawled across the floor, not far from him. 

"Alex," he rasps. Every breath is hard, sending waves of white-hot agony surging with the rise and fall of his chest. But even now Yassen cannot stop instinctively fighting to survive, no matter how impossible the task. "Please." 

He doesn't know what he's asking for. _Alex, please be alive,_ maybe. A useless request — Alex has no say in the matter. If the boy is dead, he is dead. 

But— 

Maybe Yassen's luck holds true after all, just imparted to a better candidate. Alex turns slowly, as if he too is experiencing the great weight of gravity in its fullest extent. There is a livid red handprint around his neck but his eyes are sharp and bright still. 

_Alive_. 

And he drags himself towards Yassen. There's little reason for it — even a child could see that Yassen is no longer a threat — but Yassen is suddenly grateful for it, in a surge of emotion too strong and unfamiliar to put into words. 

He doesn't want to be alone. 

He doesn't want to _die_ alone. Of all things, he thinks of Leo, dying by slow horrible inches in that empty Russian shack, saying _I'm glad you looked after me. I always liked being with you, Yasha._

He thinks, in a wild haze, of saying 'call me Yasha' just to hear his actual name one last time. But no— there are more important things. Yassen will soon be dead, it is Alex that will have to live with the outcome of what happened here. 

"What happened to Cray?" Yassen asks, as if there's anything he can do now about the situation. Blood stains the front of his shirt, turning white to red. Every beat of his heart is a countdown, a finite number about to run out. 

"He went off his trolley," Alex answers, a sardonic twist to his lips. 

Yassen has no energy to interpret his strange comment. "He's dead?" he clarifies. 

"Very." 

"I knew it was a mistake working for him," Yassen says, the words an olive branch. A peace offering. There is nothing he could do now, even if he wished to avenge his employer, but… Alex should know that he was right. If the boy has to live with being a killer, maybe knowing that he was justified will help him. 

Regret is a heavy weight to carry. 

But Alex would not listen to his advice, even if he had the time to give it. Not as they are — spy and assassin — not when Yassen has been holding him hostage. Not without a greater explanation than Yassen has time to give. 

He feels curiously cold. Warmth is seeping out of him along with his blood, circulation failing to reach his extremities. Hypovolemic shock is starting to settle in; it won't be long now. 

"There is something I need to tell you," he says. The physical effort of speaking is almost beyond him but actually saying the words is easier than the struggle of piecing together what to say. He has never imagined saying them, never thought about which words to use, how to present a convincing narrative. In the moment, he finds that they will not come. "About why I couldn't kill you. Because, you see, Alex… I knew your father." 

"What?" 

"We worked together," Yassen says, forcing himself to breathe deeply enough to gain the air to talk. Those words aren't enough, they don't encompass the whole of it, of what Hunter meant to him, of what Hunter did for him. They're inadequate. But if he had a hundred more years, he isn't sure he could choose better ones. 

"He worked with you?" Alex repeats, and Yassen can see the confusion on his face. The understanding is dawning there too, however little Alex wants it. But he must understand it. He _must._

Yassen had stopped thinking about his parents after he killed Sharkovsky. He'd known, even then, that they would have been ashamed of him, of what he had done in his life. He knows it now, still. They had given everything for him, so that he could survive, and what he had done with that survival would have horrified them. 

_He would be proud of you_ , he wants to say to Alex. Wants Alex to understand and trust in that. However little the rest of the world will agree, Alex should know that Hunter would have approved. 

Surely that must be enough. 

"Yes," is all he manages. 

"You mean… he was a spy," Alex denies. "Did he work for MI6?" 

"Not a spy, no, Alex," Yassen has no gentle words for him. But he has _the truth_ and Alex should know it, if he insists on involving himself in this lifestyle. If he doesn't know… "He was a killer. MI6 hunted him down. They killed him. They tried to kill both of us. At the last minute I escaped, but he… They killed your father, Alex." 

"No!" 

"Why would I lie to you?" Yassen huffs, reaching out and taking Alex's hand in his. A wave of exasperation hits him — must Alex be so _difficult_? _Now?_

It drains away and is replaced with an unfamiliar feeling of fondness. Of course he must. Alex would not be himself otherwise. Clever and reckless and difficult, to a fault. 

"Your father, he did this," Yassen says, touching the scar on his neck. The edges of his vision are dark now, each blink takes more effort than the last. "He saved my life. In a way, I loved him. I love you too, Alex. You are so very much like him. I'm glad that you're here with me now." 

Alex is still watching him, everything shuttered away behind a blank expression. The same he'd worn when Yassen had shot Herod Sayle in front of him. Watchful and careful and blank. 

Yassen squeezes his hand, or tries to. His muscles no longer have any strength. "If you don't believe me," he rasps. He closes his eyes and can't find the strength to open them again. "Go to Venice. Find Scorpia. And you will find your destiny..." 

. 

* * *

. 

Yassen opens his eyes in the cockpit of a Eurocopter EC120 Colibri. 

It is, in his experience, _not_ how things go. He has dodged death often enough to know that there is _always_ a chance of survival, no matter how small, and yet— 

He breathes in, deeply. There is no pain, no restriction on his movement, nothing to ever indicate that he had been shot. The bullet, a .40 hollow point had chipped in underneath his third rib, likely skimmed his heart. It was not a wound that would heal quickly, if it could be healed at all. It would have been the work of months, if not years, and Yassen remembers none of it. Not getting out of Air Force One, not getting into this helicopter, nothing. 

The Colibri hums gently beneath his hands, continuing the flightpath it had been on. Outside the window the sky is grey and cloudy, the landscape is open grass with a hint of the ocean on the horizon. Immediately in front of him is a boxy building — a manufacturing plant covered with the logo of Sayle Enterprises. 

His radio crackles in his ear. "Mr Gregorovich, you are cleared for landing," says a crisp, heavily accented woman's voice. 

"Affirmative," Yassen says, rather than expose any ignorance by asking questions. There is no one else in the helicopter with him. The missing time, the missing injury, seems so absurd as to be impossible. He tilts the cyclic stick and aims for the white painted H of the helipad. "Incoming now." 

He lands and begins the shutdown procedure for the Colibri. But most of his attention is on the figure waiting patiently beside the helipad. A blonde woman, severely dressed, with distinctive half moon glasses. 

Yassen recognises her immediately. He had worked reasonably closely with her on the Stormbreaker project, to coordinate the delivery of the viral samples. 

Nadia Vole. Assistant to Herod Sayle. Formerly of the Bundesnachrichtendienst, the German intelligence agency. 

She had died, he remembers with detached certainty, when Alex Rider had discovered the truth behind the Stormbreaker project. He had not particularly cared to hear the details of it, simply the knowledge that her removal hadn't been his responsibility. 

And yet, there she is. Outside the Sayle manufacturing plant that should, by all rights, be closed and abandoned. 

It is as though they are in some crude parody of the past. 

Or... not a parody at all. 

The idea seems ludicrous. _And yet._ Yassen presses a hand firmly against his chest, feeling nothing but dull pressure — no pain, no bullet wound — and unclips the pilots harness holding him into his seat. 

"Mr Gregorovich," Nadia Vole says as he climbs out of the helicopter. She seems perfectly calm and composed, as if she sees nothing strange about this. "Mr Sayle is waiting for you." 

"Fräulein Vole," he returns, and lets her lead him towards the house. It is exactly as he remembers it being. The place feels _vibrant_ in a way he doubts that he noticed before — as though there is potential, opportunity, choices to be made. Yassen has been indecisive and lost because of it. Now he has a second chance and he _knows_ which choice he would prefer to make. 

It is not, unfortunately, in Sayle's favour. 

"About bliddy time," Herod Sayle says when they get there, also looking remarkably _not dead_. Unlike Vole, whose death Yassen had only heard about, Sayle's he knows first hand. Yassen had been the one to kill him, and he much preferred those he killed to stay dead. It was simply a matter of profesionalism. 

Sayle paces back and forth, a mess of nervous energy. "Well?" he snaps. 

Yassen has dealt with worse disrespect, but that doesn't mean he enjoys it. He ignores the implicit command for a moment, turning to examine the other two men in the room. One is Mr Grin, the knife wielder that Sayle finds _useful_ — and doesn't that say so much about him — the other is… 

"Ian Rider," Sayle introduces impatiently. "My new head of security. Is the delivery on schedule or not?" 

The last time he had been here, having this conversation, Yassen had given no indication that he recognised Ian Rider. He had then taken Sayle aside and told him that his new 'head of security' was working for MI6. Sayle had, naturally, told him to get rid of the problem, which Yassen had done just in time — the man had already been on his way back to London with enough proof to overturn their entire operation. 

And that had brought Alex here. 

This time, he finds himself with no particular loyalty to Herod Sayle. This time, he already knows Stormbreaker will fail. He remembers the ease of putting a bullet in Sayle's skull. 

This time, he smiles thinly and says, "I used to work with your brother. He was an excellent shot." 

Ian Rider gives no particular reaction, even though he must wonder if it is a threat. "He was," he agrees. 

There's no anger in it — no emotion from the spy about the fact that his brother was a contract killer. Nothing about Yassen waving that fact in his face. Is he so good at keeping cover? Yassen had never been particularly impressed with any MI6 agent's acting ability, and given that Ian Rider is here under _his own name_... 

_You mean… he was a spy. Did he work for MI6?_ Alex's words slink into his mind, unwanted. They'd been full of denial, but hadn't Yassen wondered that himself? Hadn't he examined the footage from the bridge, over and over again, wondering _how_ — 

"And the bliddy shipment?" Sayle demands, cutting into his train of thought impatiently. 

"On it's way," Yassen says. He turns away from Ian Rider, dismissing him entirely. "The virus has been manufactured and is being shipped. It will arrive on the thirtieth. We have contracted a submarine to deliver it the final leg of the journey, right into the bay. You'll have half an hour to unload it." 

"And only twenty four hours to install it? That's not enough bliddy time!" 

"That's what you have," Yassen says, impassively. 

Of all the ways Sayle could have chosen to enact his pathetic revenge, he chose a virus. And chose to target children with it. 

Yassen had tried very hard to have no opinions on the matter — Scorpia had seen it as an excellent business opportunity, and Sayle had certainly paid the price for their services — but he finds himself glad that Sayle had failed. Would, almost certainly, fail again. 

"We will be in touch," Yassen says. 

He finds, suddenly, that he has more important places to be. 

. 

* * *

. 

The location of the Rider house in London is not difficult to find. Yassen has even been here before, the first time that the Stormbreaker project had failed. He parks across the street and gets out, but doesn't approach. 

The house looks innocuous. Very picturesquely english — a multi storey terrace house with red brick and white siding, a small front yard and an iron wrought gate. Identical in every way to every other house on the street, and indeed the whole suburb. 

And it's likely that most of its defences rely on that anonymity. Most — but not all. Yassen is not here to attack it, but nor does he wish to summon MI6 down on his own head if he trips an alarm. 

And, well. Perhaps that would not be the best way of going about things. He isn't entirely sure what the _best way_ would be, however. His skillset does not lend itself towards casual visitation. 

He's never had the need before. 

"Uh, are you looking for something?" 

Yassen pivots slowly, taking in the teenager the bike who has approached him. He had been aware of the people passing, but it had seemed far too much to hope that things would be _this easy._

"Alex Rider," he greets. 

"Yeah?" the boy answers, more warily this time. He looks alert, one foot on the pedal of his bike, like it would be easy enough to push off and pedal away if he needed to. But his suspicion is softer, somehow, than that of the Alex that Yassen has been dealing with. As though he still believes there could be a safe explanation for a strange encounter. 

The Alex Rider that Yassen had met in France had been a wild animal, backed into a corner and fighting his way out. The Alex Rider that Cray had invited into his house had been knowingly walking towards his own death. Even the Alex Rider that had seen him shoot Herod Sayle had been blank and fearless, empty of everything but distant curiosity. 

It's only now that Yassen sees the contrast that he realises none of those facets were natural. Each was, in its own way, a sign of damage. 

_Go back to school. You're still a child_ , he had said. But he'd already been too late by then. That Alex had already been exposed to their world and suffered for it. _This_ Alex… this Alex is still a child. 

"I was speaking to your uncle recently," Yassen says, coming to a decision that even he can't articulate to himself. He had meant to tell Alex the truth, yet now he can't. By rights, he should leave then, give no cause for Alex to be dragged into their world. Yet he can't do that either. "Ian Rider. I thought I would stop by." 

The wariness fades. Yassen's reasoning apparently seems perfectly normal and innocuous. The kind of thing that a colleague might do, perhaps. He has little experience. 

"Oh," Alex says. "He's not here at the moment. There's some… banking conference or something." 

"Or something, yes. I saw him in Cornwall," Yassen says. 

"Do you work for the bank too?" Alex asks, though doubtfully. Like his instincts are already shouting danger signals at him, even though he has none of the information to back it up, even though he doesn't know what to do with it. 

"No," Yassen says. "I used to work with your father." 

Alex _brightens_. There's no other word for it. "In the Paras?" As if this occupation is _much_ more believable. "Do… do you want to come in? If you've got time?" 

The eagerness is charming. Alex clearly wants to know more — what boy does not idolise his father? 

Yassen gives him a half smile. "Certainly." 

Alex scoots his bike though the gate and hastily unlocks the door. Yassen follows him smoothly, hands in his jacket pockets and shoulders hunched to obscure his profile, chin tilted down and away from where a security camera would typically be mounted to prevent a clear recording of his face. Habitual actions, barely noticeable. 

Inside, Alex hovers nervously for a second, unsure. "Can I get you a drink?" 

"Tea, if you have it," Yassen says, more because he thinks Alex needs something to do than because he will drink it. While Alex ducks inside the kitchen, he gives the place a quick once over; The inside of the house is neat and tidy, but with the clear signs of habitation — a stack of DVD's near the television, a playstation controller resting over the arm of the couch, a bookshelf stuffed full of paperbacks. There are soccer boots next to the door, shedding tiny bits of dirt and grass. 

Inspecting the premises is just habit, ensuring he has a firm idea of the possible exits, or ambush points. He touches nothing and places no bugs or trackers, though the idea is tempting. 

Instead, he seats himself at the solid oak dining table and waits. Alex brings him a mug of tea, carrying a tall glass of coke for himself. 

"You worked with my dad?" Alex repeats, focusing in and probing for information. He's straightforward about it, no tricks or subtleties. "In the Army?" 

"Just after he left," Yassen says carefully. He wraps one hand around the mug, avoiding trapping his fingers in the handle. If it comes to it, a cup of hot liquid makes a decent distraction when thrown. "He spent some as an instructor. He taught me many things and saved my life more than once." 

It isn't… untrue. And perhaps it is still an unkindness to leave out the specifics — to _not_ tell Alex about Scorpia, that his father was a killer — but this Alex isn't involved. _Not yet, not yet._ Yassen finds himself strangely reluctant to be the one to bring him in. 

Instead, he raises a hand and traces a finger across the line on his throat, so that Alex can see it, and tells him an _abbreviated_ story about how it had happened. It's helped by the fact that Alex doesn't ask what two men had been doing in the Amazon Rainforest with guns — whether he assumes they had a legitimate purpose or simply doesn't think to ask. 

"He was an excellent shot," Yassen says, without adding that the same bullet had killed their target. That's unlikely to be information Alex would like to hear, even if it is the more impressive part of the story. 

"That's amazing," Alex breathes. His eyes are wide with admiration. 

He's so _open_ , Yassen thinks with wonder and it's like getting shot in the chest all over again. He can remember Alex pointing his own gun at him, on the Fer de Lance, the way he had barely talked the boy out of shooting him and the coldness of his eyes then. 

It seems almost impossible that this is the same boy. 

"And you, Alex? You must be in secondary school? Do you… enjoy it?" 

"It's alright," Alex says, shrugging one shoulder. It's the well worn response of a child who has been asked that many times, by many different adults. "I do okay. I'm on the soccer team." 

"Are you any good?" 

"Yeah," Alex says, with no modesty, false or otherwise. "I might see if I can get a scholarship and play for real." 

"You have my encouragement," Yassen says. It's a better life than being a _spy_ or an assassin, or being dead, and that's all that awaits Alex if he goes down his former path. 

Alex grins at him, happy with the simple agreement. "If I do, you should come watch me play," he says. 

"If you do, I might," Yassen returns levelly, even though it's a terrible promise. The sheer _crowds_ at a professional soccer match. It's a nightmare just thinking of it, without factoring in the fact that by this agreement alone, people will know he will be there. "Which team do you mean to play for?" 

Alex launches into an explanation. Yassen does not particularly care for sports and follows them only in the distant way required to navigate around events, or provide enough informationless smalltalk with receptionists and other service workers to remain as unmemorable as possible. But Alex seems passionate, and it's no hardship to listen to him talk about something he clearly cares about. 

_You killed my uncle. One day I'll kill you._

That Alex would have never spoken to him. Let alone as easily as this. It isn't worth mourning what is clearly gone and out of reach, yet… 

Yassen does mean to do what he must to keep it. 

"And…" Yassen hesitates, but if MI6 works out he visited then he has already shown his hand. What is one more confirmation? And morbidly, he needs to hear it. To be certain of his choice. "Is your school going to receive one of the new Sayle computers?" 

Alex frowns a little, thinking. "The Stormbreakers?" he asks, proving he already knows about them. Yassen wonders if he had got _himself_ involved, as he had done in France, or if he had been merely convinced to investigate. "Yeah, I think so. They're supposed to be super fast because of a new microprocessor. Why?" 

There's a glint of sharp curiosity in his eyes. Yassen almost laughs. Alex is taking note, comparing the question against his knowledge and will do so again and again until the real answer falls out. The stubborn intelligence and _drive_ that made him chase Damian Cray across the country. 

"I had heard that there was a problem at the factory," he says, "and they would no longer be delivered. I suppose I wondered if you would be disappointed." 

There would be a problem, one way or the other. If Ian Rider and MI6 didn't take care of it, Yassen would. It isn't enough to merely _refuse_ to harm Alex Rider — Cray had shown him that. Even if Yassen does nothing, Alex will fall as collateral damage, and that is almost _worse._

It's too easy, in his mind, to substitute Alex for Leo, to watch him die slowly and in pain from a virus with no cure. 

Scorpia would be unhappy with him — more so than they had been at his failure the first time around — but perhaps he could fake his own death in the process and avoid their retribution. Working for them is no longer profitable. 

Inevitably, the tea in his hand goes cold and he knows he's been here too long. He nudges the conversation to a close and stands to leave. 

"Wait," Alex says, shooting to his feet too. "Do you, uh, have a phone number? Or something?" He looks nervous. "And, uh, you didn't tell me your name." 

Yassen pauses. It's a _terrible_ idea. His phone is a burner and he'll destroy it and get a new one as soon as this job is finished. Any kind of permanent connection is a weakness, is something that could be used against him, something that could end with him dead. 

But— 

He could run it through proxies. Keep it untraceable. It would merely be difficult, not impossible. 

"My name is Yassen Gregorovich," he says. "But you should call me Yasha." He rattles off a number, sure that Alex will have the ability to memorise it instantly. "Don't tell anyone you have it." 

That flash of suspicious intelligence is back and Yassen puts it at even odds whether Alex keeps it secret or not. For now, he just nods. "Yasha. Thanks for coming. It was nice to meet you." 

How long has it been since anyone spoke his name? Twenty years? More? Hearing it feels like there had been a vice around his chest the whole time that has only just released — that Alex alone had held the key to. 

He breathes, deeply and pain free. 

"And you, Alex." Yassen raises his hand as he walks out the door — partially to block his face and partially to wave goodbye. There doesn't even appear to be an ambush waiting for him outside. How fortunate. "Stay in school." 

He catches sight of Alex rolling his eyes. "I know, I know. Stay in school, don't do drugs. I'm good, I promise." 

"Until next time, then," Yassen says. He has a terrorist act to stop and his own death to fake but for once… he thinks there might be something to look forward to. 

**Author's Note:**

> Pieces of canon have been selectively ignored (you can probably tell which!) and I've tended to prioritize the Eagle Strike interpretation over the Russian Roulette, but hopefully it's all clear in the text!


End file.
